


A Matter of Business and Bluffing

by B Snicket (Turdle)



Series: A Complete History of the V.F.D [1]
Category: Cain Saga and Godchild, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Arson, Canon - Book, Canon - Manga, Canonical Character Death, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover, Delilah - Freeform, Fire, Gen, Gothic, Grief/Mourning, London, Nobility, Organized Crime, Secret Societies, Tragedy, V.F.D., Victorian, Volunteer Fire Department, arson murder no jaywalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turdle/pseuds/B%20Snicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is my duty, Dear Reader, to warn you that it may be in your best interests to turn back now, unless you wish to read a dismally dark diatribe followed by the mourning of the deaths of the Earl Phantomhive and his wife in a very accidental Estate Fire. Such a tale could not at all warm your heart or even bring a smile to your face, and absconding away to more pleasurable activities is absolutely recommended. If one is so brave as to continue, one would indeed however, be enlightened as to the details surrounding proper etiquette for funeral arrangements for arson victims...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Business and Bluffing

**Author's Note:**

> >   
>  _"Every political good carried to the extreme must be productive of evil."_   
> 
> 
> \- Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.
> 
> It is with my deepest apologies, Dear Reader, that I must regretfully inform you the title of this lovingly executed book is rather misleading. It is my aim with this book to parcel out what little still exists about the V.F.D. today, and what is known about its members and its history. However, large chunks of primary source materials appear to be missing, deliberately blacked out, stolen, or rather unfortunately burned, meaning that at times, The Clear and Concise History of the V.F.D. is neither clear, nor concise. Nonetheless, I have done what I could manage with whatever was salvageable; which, Dear Reader, you will find is a recurring theme in the aftermath of any V.F.D. related event.
> 
> In the event of any surprise, bewilderment, or anger, it is highly recommended, Dear Reader, that you consult the index and footnotes, which retain my commentary and educated guesswork on all matters regarding how the remaining sources must be interpreted. In the event that you remain in the state of one of the above emotions, I would suggest that you recall that I am oftentimes just as surprised, bewildered, or angry as you must be. In the event of this book being discovered to be in your possession by someone of a particularly menacing demeanor, it is recommended you burn this book immediately.
> 
> The World is Quiet Here.- Forward to _The Clear and Concise History of the V.F.D._ , compiled by B. Snicket.

They are used to gathering in the sensuous dimness of the Phantomhive billiards room, where even the sharpest clink of the cues is softened by shelves upon shelves of books and clinging pipe smoke. In the placid lights of the club, their faces are almost unfamiliar to one another.

“It’s going to be a long night,” says a lady reclining on her chair as if she is a tigress and her blue walking-dress a cage. “And Red and I have got to get home and put on mourning. Let’s make it quick, shall we?”

“We’ve all got parts to play,” cackles a man hunched over under the weight of an undertaker’s perpetual mourning clothes. The woman draws herself up and gives him a long look down the blade of her nose. In the corner, a prim redheaded woman convulsively folds and unfolds her hands. A speck of ash perches on the top of her carefully arranged hair.

“Try to contain yourself,” continues the tigress. “This is hardly an occasion for mirth.”

“Of course not,” simpers the man. He grins out from underneath coarse tufts of gray bangs, not unlike a jackal trying to offer reassurance. The tigress shifts judiciously to face the assembled company. 

“There isn’t any use in tactfully avoiding the situation,” she announces.

“Anything but tact,” agrees a long-legged Chinese man. His even leggier lady friend is perched on the edge of his chair, looking quite bored and entirely unaware of the marvelous effect her bare thighs have on some of the men in the room. She alone seems uninterested with the proceedings at hand; the other faces bear looks of mingled disdain, frustration, and disgust. 

“Are we certain there were no survivors?” The question is submitted by who clenches his cigar elegantly in his teeth to speak. 

“None so far,” says the tigress. “Excepting the butler. He was found in one of the cellars, along with several other servants who didn’t make the trip to the hospital.” She takes a ginger sip from her teacup. “I don’t think he’s come to yet. Red?”

“He hadn’t when I left the hospital,” says the prim redhead. She seems to have to shake herself conscious every time she speaks.

“A pity, a pity,” says another man as he checks his watch. “It seems everyone’s being burned down nowadays. Is that all? I’ve got an appointment at my club, you know.”

“Such devotion,” says the tigress. The man clicks his pocket-watch closed with a snort.

“Merely attempting to hasten you off to your tailor’s sooner, my dear. And the bodies?”

“Most of the household is accounted for,” says the tigress. The undertaker cackles again and rubs his hands together like a fly.

“And the family?”

The tigress sighs and sips her tea. Red looks up, her eyes quite wild, as the undertaker glides across the room to rest his elbows on the back of her chair. A sudden hush has fallen, and the entire company leans forward as the tigress returns her cup to its saucer. Only the Chinese girl remains unaffected. She twirls one of her braids around her finger and pops her red lips open to bite it, when the door swings open and fresh air flushes in with a warm baritone on its heels.

“Pardon my lateness; I was otherwise engaged.”  Luxe and melodic, the voice sweeps through the room with all the richness and shade of a cello. It jerks the assembled men straight up in their chairs like puppets, all except the Chinese. He smiles languidly at his girl’s legs as he traces a vein down to the crease of her inner knee. The women’s eyes flicker to the door and the newcomer, but their varying postures remain the same: perfect depictions of contained anger, careless boredom, and quiet misery.

The newcomer is everything the timbre of his voice suggests. Framed against the door, he is tall, dressed to suit his sober, muscled frame and square shoulders, and smiling with a dangerously generous mouth.

“I just heard the news—tragic, and especially right on the heels of the last fire. I hope I’m not too late to express my sympathies,” he says to the tigress. He sweeps through the room to take a seat opposite her as if it had been reserved for him, settling into it and leaning towards her, elbows on outspread knees. Behind his glasses, his eyes are deceptively earnest. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Red stares at him, but, her gaze unreturned, she drops her eyes. The undertaker chuckles and nods.

“We were just discussing the bodies,” he says he says with relish.

“Of course; the bodies,” says the newcomer. “How difficult it must be.”

“Don’t condescend to sympathize,” the tigress says shortly. Her teacup clinks against its saucer as she crosses her ankles, staring fearless at the new man. “Nothing prepares one for the loss of one’s entire blood family.”

“Indeed,” says the newcomer. He looks with interest from the tigress to Red, who glances away, into the fire. For a moment the room is silent but for the crackling of the logs and the intensity of the tigress’s glare.

“Bodies, bodies,” the undertaker cries at last.

“An important factor in any murder,” agrees the Chinese man, whose hand still rests on his girl’s long leg.

“The butler is the sole survivor, you said,” puffs the man with the cigar.

“Everyone else burned or asphyxiated, or was crushed when the upper floors caved in,” Red murmurs to the fire.

“A colossal tragedy,” says the newcomer. He rests one ankle on his knee and beams at the tigress. “Truly fine people. This loss will reach even the darkest and dirtiest corners of our community, no doubt.” The Chinese man laughs appreciatively as the newcomer continues. “And the loss of a such a young child, too, more’s the pity—“

“How elegiac,” the tigress says. “A pity you aren’t available to make the funeral speeches.” She turns forcibly away from him to face the rest of the company, frowning at the Chinese man and the placement of his hand. “The butler is the sole confirmed survivor, but the son’s body has yet to be recovered,” she says bluntly. Red shudders. “No doubt he managed to get out of his room and was trapped when the wing collapsed. They found his nurse’s body down in the kitchen, you know. Had she survived I’d see her flayed for slacking at her post.”

This remarkable speech is followed by an agreeable nod from the man with the cigar, and another unsettling laugh from the undertaker. Red gets up to pace the room, and he takes her chair without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“You say the rest of the household is accounted for?” He steeples fingers under the long folds of his sleeves.

“At the last report, more or less.”

“How odd,”  says the undertaker. The tigress stiffens but says nothing.

“It’s getting late,” says the man with the watch. “Look, I’ve tried not to be, ah, insensitive, but if we could hurry this along? These people can’t be kept waiting.”

“Yes, let’s go straight to the heart of the matter, as you’d say,” the Chinese man says dreamily, to no-one in particular except for maybe his girl. She purses her lips and watches Red’s circuit around the room. The tigress’s mouth twitches into a barren frown. With deadly precision she asks, “What else is there to discuss?”

“You must have a suspect,” says the man with the watch. “I don’t presume you called us together for sympathy.”

“Nor for nostalgia—the good old days are barely over,” observes the Chinese man.

“I think the gentlemen are right,” says the newcomer.

“Let’s hear it, then, Lady Middleford,” says the man with the cigar.

In the far corner of the room Red has stopped. She turns slowly back towards the company with a curious look on her face, part curiosity and part agony. The tigress, Lady Middleford, takes a long sip from her teacup as the tension builds. In the silence, Red looks at the newcomer, and for a brief moment she meets his eyes and pours her unspoken questions into them. He smiles at her. Lady Middleford sets her teacup back in its saucer with a decisive clink.

“I suspect no-one,” she says, looking at the newcomer, “and am sure the fire was started by the same villains who set the last one. My brother and the Baudelaires had certain enemies in common.”

An audible sigh escapes from the man with the cigar. He glances furiously from the Lady Middleford to the newcomer, then catches himself and resumes a look of nonchalance. The man with the watch nods grimly, checks the time again, and rises to his feet.

“Expected as much.” He nods to the men, bows to the tigress and Red, and sneaks one last glance at the Chinese girl’s thighs. “I don’t suppose we’ll have occasion to meet again like this,” he says, plainly a little smug in the fact. “Ladies, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Good evening.”

“I’ll say the same,” says the cigar-man. He, too, gets to his feet. “Lady Middleford, I leave myself entirely at your disposal, should you ever find yourself in need of assistance.” He grins coarsely around the cigar. “Consider it my way of honoring your brother’s memory. Good evening.”

Goodbyes made, the men leave, followed by the Chinese, until the company has dwindled down to four. The newcomer gestures for Red to join them again. Lady Middleford and the undertaker discuss funerary arrangements in low voices, so that only snippets of the conversation sneak out over the crackling of the fire.

“The very best, of course,” the lady says.

“—difficult to do when the body’s that disfigured—“

“—doesn’t need to be an open casket—“

“—certainly, certainly—“

The newcomer stands and offers a hand to Red. 

“This must be hard on you,” he says. His voice is soft and soothing. “Allow me to see you to a cab—I think it’s best we leave these two to it. I’d like to see your husband soon, some business matters; you’ll tell him for me.”

“Of course,”  she says. Her voice is hollow and her hand light. “I shall convey the message.” In the threshold she looks back over her shoulder at Lady  Middleford, who waves her out without looking up. Red makes a quiet choking noise but says nothing.

“I’m sure you’ll recover in time,” says her escort, smiling wider. “It is an unfortunate but true fact that divine providence does not always extend itself to those who claim respectability. A harsh lesson to learn, to be sure, but one that leaves the pupil a wiser person.”

Red looks away from him. 

“If you say so,” she says at last, replaying his friendly smiles and forthright looks and protestations of sympathy, and weighing them all against the veiled threat in his voice. “If you say so, Alexis.”

“I do, my dear,” he says. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written with the contributions of _Siacatmesecat_ in the name of helping B. Snicket.


End file.
